


Oubliette

by unrivaled_tapestry



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: A flawed relationship that is also healing, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, Dimitri being Dimitri, Grief/Mourning, Intrusive Thoughts, Loneliness, Lorenz dies before the start of the fic at Myrddin, M/M, Self-Harm, Suicidal Ideation, check the author's note for additional warnings, high-risk sexual behavior, under-negotatiated BDSM
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:06:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23491396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unrivaled_tapestry/pseuds/unrivaled_tapestry
Summary: Ferdinand sought to distinguish himself away from Edelgard. Drawn by both the Professor and a tall prince with kind eyes, he joined the Blue Lions.A war and five years carry Ferdinand alone and graceless to the losing side, and Dimitri doesn't seem so gentle anymore. Fortunately, gentle isn't what Ferdinand wants.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd
Comments: 62
Kudos: 106





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, HUGE thanks to [Nuanta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nuanta/) for beta'ing this for me!
> 
> This story was inspired by a few different things. First and foremost, I wanted to delve into the idea of Ferdinand as a solitary recruit to the Blue Lions--what that means for him to lose his title, and what it means to be alone in a group of characters he has few supports with.
> 
> I also wanted to write a bit of a darker take on Ferdimi. I've been intrigued by the ship, and wanted to think about what their supports could look like, especially as a solitary support. This takes place between Myrddin Bridge and Gronder Field, so it'll mark a pretty dark time for both of them. They are both dealing with pretty bad mental health in this fic, so please just be aware of that.
> 
> Warnings:  
> \- The character death warning. Neither Dimitri or Ferdinand will die in this fic, but Lorenz dies before the fic starts at Myrddin Bridge, and Ferdinand begins a very unhealthy grieving process. Although it happens before the fic starts, there are frequent flashbacks to it, and it's pretty closely linked to the emotional arc of the fic. Any other character deaths will be canon.
> 
> \- The Suicidal Ideation tag is not so much for this chapter, but will apply for future chapters.
> 
> \- The sex in this fic is Explicit.
> 
> \- Please read the other tags carefully. I don't think they need other explanation, but if you have any concerns feel free to message me.

Ferdinand woke up in his room, and if not for the ache in his head, the length of his hair, and the soreness above his clavicle, he’d have thought he was back at the Academy.

Although the visitor he’d brought to his room the previous night had long since left, Ferdinand still caught himself reaching for the spot on the bed next to him, as if there was something there that could make him less sick to his stomach. He downed cool water on a throat so dry it stung on the way down. He dressed in a red jacket, with low enough sleeves to cover his wrists and a high enough collar to hug his cravat to his jaw.

He had few official duties, save for the patrols he was trusted with, and usually went down to the stables afterwards if there wasn’t a war meeting. There wasn’t always work for him, but the stablemaster knew he could muck stalls and take the warhorses through their paces so they wouldn’t stiffen up or get dull. He reminded himself it was something to look forward to.

But first—as he had done every morning since Myrddin Bridge—he went to the remains of the cathedral and tried to pretend he was not in mourning.

Although Garreg Mach was in a sorry state from five years of neglect, he still found some enjoyment in the walk through the reception hall and old north courtyard. Although the halls bustled with Faerghan soldiers now instead of his classmates, there was a kind of familiarity to it.

The cathedral was less of a church or a mausoleum, and more of a corpse. The altar had long ago been stripped of anything valuable, and gaping wounds in the ceiling above the pews left most of the nave exposed to the elements. As spring approached, there were more sunny days than rainy ones, but that was its own curse as Ferdinand took a seat across the room from where the volunteer choirmaster led a small sermon. The light hurt his eyes and hurt his head.

In front of some broken pews, the hunched shadow of Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd kept a vigil at the base of a pile of rubble. Ferdinand had not spoken to him since arriving—the news of his survival had filled Ferdinand with as much hope as news of the professor’s return, but that had quickly been tempered by the truth of what five years as a dead man did to someone. Occasionally, Ferdinand had wandered close enough to hear Dimitri speaking as if in conversation. Sometimes he caught words like ‘father’ or ‘Glenn’, and other times he overheard more violent things.

Dedue’s return brought some familiarity to the scene, however. Since the bridge, he had returned to his place at Dimitri’s side, and could often be seen sitting in the pews, or standing nearby, attempting to have a hushed conversation with him. Other than the professor, Dedue was the only one still trying. 

Ferdinand focused on trying to find some solace in the words of the sermon, even though he kept getting lost in the psalms and numbered passages the Faerghans liked so much.

Afterwards, when the choir began their warm up, Ferdinand closed his eyes and propped his cheek up on his wrist. He had gone back to the dinner, gone to bed late, and not been alone when he did. That had been his routine for seven days, but his body was beginning to feel the effects of night after night of overindulgence. Between his state, the breeze, and a moment of calm, the sound of earnest but off-key singing soothed him into his exhaustion.

“Ferdinand?”

Ferdinand was broken out of his reverie by the Professor’s voice. He’d perhaps fallen back asleep, because the sun poured into the gutted ceiling of the cathedral at a different angle now. Strangely, both Dimitri and Dedue were gone.

He squinted against the light at the Professor’s back, and he had a bitter thought in the pit of his stomach that that shadowed, blank face was probably the last thing Lorenz saw before he took a sword through the heart.

But he shoved it down, as deep as he could, and sat up straight in the pews.

“Professor, I am sorry. I seem to have drifted off.” He was grateful to see that his headache had subsided at least. “I hope I have not missed a war meeting.”

“No,” the Professor said. “Ferdinand...do you mind if I sit with you?”

Ferdinand’s response died on his tongue, and he moved to make room, his face fixed firmly on a book of hymns sitting in front of him in a pile of sticks. It had probably been there since before the Academy closed.

Ferdinand wasn't trusted with the newly reformed Blue Lions. Although he'd spent the last five years as a minor presence in the war effort, trust was in short supply in Faerghus. His participation was seen as more pitiable than dedicated, an unfortunate side effect of a coup, washed north by the tide.

When Ferdinand heard of the professor's return, and received an invitation to join him at Garreg Mach, he'd had some spark of hope that things might be better. However, the reception from his former classmates was chilly at best. The only one who gave him the time of day was Mercedes, and Annette often joined her, though she and Ferdinand ultimately had little in common. Until recently, as they had not technically been at war with the Alliance, Ferdinand had been able to exchange letters with Lorenz.

“Ferdinand, I am sorry about how the Myrddin campaign ended.”

“You did what you had to,” Ferdinand replied, mechanically, a response almost second nature to him now. It was what he told soldiers when they bragged about dead Adrestians, and it was what he told himself before he went to sleep every night.

Byleth paused, his hands folded tightly in front of him, in some mockery of prayer. “I won’t insult your grief by telling you about my regrets. I felt it was necessary to spare him a worse fate, and I still do.”

_"Please lay me to rest in a manner befitting the nobility."_

_"Why...why did you do that? He would have joined us."_

_"I'm sorry you had to see that."_

_"But...why? Answer me."_

_"If I hadn't, Dimitri would have.”_

Ferdinand pressed a palm into his forehead. Crying among the Faerghans terrified him as much as the thought of crying in front of his dead father did, but he was sure his growing reputation permitted a small show of weakness following a night of overindulgence. “I harbor no ill will towards you, Professor. If that is what you are worried about—”

“I’m worried about you, Ferdinand,” Byleth cut in suddenly, his voice picking up the sharp intonation of someone unused to expressing concern. “I would rather you be angry with me than yourself.”

Ferdinand barked out a laugh. “I do not need a lecture—”

“I think you do,” Byleth snapped again. “It’s not about finding...comfort. Some of the generals care, but I don’t.” He paused, as if working through his next words carefully before speaking. “The drinking and the bruises need to stop.”

Ferdinand’s throat hurt as he fought a twisting feeling in it, and something hot stung his eyes. He wiped them away with his sleeve. In the distance, Gilbert approached the altar, and Ferdinand looked away in case he looked over his shoulder and saw Byleth consoling his _Adrestian pet_ , as Felix frequently, indelicately put it.

“Are you going to tell me he would not have wanted this?”

“I won’t guess what the dead would want.” Byleth, as if sensing his discomfort, turned to face him, to help block the view of him from the rest of the room. “I just don’t want to find out I killed _two_ students on that bridge, Ferdinand.”

There was enough emotion in his voice that Ferdinand felt it in his chest with another wave of loathing.

Ferdinand sucked in a breath. “I am fine, professor. I have perhaps been reckless. And indiscreet. I will rectify it.”

Byleth’s expression softened. “Please, I only want what’s best for you.”

He reached a hand out to Ferdinand’s knee—entirely platonic, brotherly even—and Ferdinand instinctively brushed his hand away. Every day he told himself that he wanted anyone to touch him, but right then, the thought of Byleth’s hand was too much.

If Byleth looked hurt, or offended, Ferdinand didn’t see. He only felt the absence as his former professor rose and left, once again leaving a vacuum on the pews next to him.

Getting up to take his leave of the cathedral, Ferdinand did his best to avoid the searching eyes. He realized it was midday, and cursed himself for falling asleep in the cathedral. Being seen as a layabout was still better than being seen as a traitor, but neither boded well for a return to form, not that Ferdiand knew what that would even look like for him now.

As he prepared to descend the stairs from the cathedral, he caught sight of Dimitri standing on the rampart. He held his head up to the winter sun, although he seemed to get no particular joy from it. Dedue waited a couple paces back. From a distance, Ferdinand could tell they exchanged hushed words.

Ferdinand, madly, considered approaching Dimitri himself. He didn’t know what he could ask except _Would you have killed Lorenz if the Professor had spared him?_ or _Would I have had to watch you rip my dearest friend’s head off with your bare hands?_ , but he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer—a ‘yes’ wouldn’t be worse than what he’d already seen, and Ferdinand knew a ‘no’ would break him.

If Dimitri interrogated Ferdinand about why he was weeping over the ashes of an enemy, he didn’t have much of an answer either.

So he left them to their business, and went to the stables. His mood improved a little as he walked across to the reception hall. For a minute the sounds of the war drifted away, and he could almost pretend he was himself.

The Faerghan soldiers celebrated every night that week, and it worked well enough for Ferdinand. It was understandable; the bridge marked their first major victory in the war against the Empire, one that thus far had only seen them lose things again and again—lose their prince, lose their land, and usually their lives. For every mile gained, two were lost. Soldiers found a way to distill even meager rations, and had spent the last week or so partying.

Meanwhile, Ferdinand drank, and held a quiet funeral.

_"Please lay me to rest in a manner befitting the nobility."_

Ferdinand's stomach churned as he stared at his food.

"Commander, are you all right?" asked a soldier to Ferdiand's left. Ferdinand did recognize the man, but was as sure as he could be that they hadn't slept together. A number of dance partners had flitted across him—both from the staff of House Fraldarius, when he'd taken shelter there, and the soldiers who he'd been with following his return to Garreg Mach. A certain percentage of them had been in the last week and a half alone, and Ferdinand kept enough of himself intact to at least know where every willing bruise came from.

Ferdinand nodded. "Thank you, I am fine. I just need some air."

He got up from his place on the long table. The world swam a little, and not from his drink. This sickness came from a place so deep in his bones that Ferdinand imagined, even knew, that it would be a pain he carried as long as he lived.

He stumbled out into the cold night air, careful to close the door to the dining hall behind him. He rubbed his shoulders, but it did nothing for his nausea, and he ended up losing his meal over the side of the railing. When finished, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Behind him, the sound of the party dimmed, and at the base of the stairs, he saw the darkness give way to the reflection of the fishing pond.

" _Please lay me to rest in a manner befitting the nobility."_

A raw sob cracked through Ferdinand's sore throat, and he smothered it. What would they say about him if he was seen crying instead of cheering? Anything less than enthusiasm just gave some more reasons to doubt his loyalty, and he could not blame them. They'd been fighting a bitter war and a harsh stalemate, facing the brutalities that came with being on the losing side. 

Ferdinand understood; his life up north was a constant balancing act, wondering when a general might accuse him of disloyalty, and not being sure he would have any defenders if the charge was levied against him. He had nightmares of a hooded man and a block of wood, of dying the same way Dimitri did, for the crime of seeming too Adrestian still.

A moment's lapse shouldn't matter. He'd celebrated with enough of them—they'd gladly fucked him or been fucked by him, gladly hit him when he asked them to. Most hesitated when he asked for more, but a few had gladly, if clumsily, answered. That worked well enough; Ferdinand would rather be seen as promiscuous than duplicitous.

Still, he kept coming back to that moment, to the last little hope he'd had before it gave way to a yawning pit in the center of him, ready to eat him from the inside out.

All he had to do was ask it to, and it would oblige.

Ferdinand stood back up when he realized he was being watched.

Dimitri wasn't dead.

Dimitri took up space like a chapel in a small town. He looked tall and broad in his armor, and the furred cloak he wore around his shoulders added to that bulk, as if he wasn't scary enough without it. His hair looked like the only comb he'd run through it was his own hands, and Ferdinand felt his attention ultimately drawn to the patch over his right eye.

It was then doubly strange that such a tall man could move so quietly. The rumored survivors of the imperial patrols he'd demolished described a death dealer that appeared and then disappeared, a ghost, a revenant. More beast than man, that stalked them for a long while and struck suddenly.

Or perhaps Ferdinand hadn't been listening because he was too busy being ill.

"Dimitri," Ferdinand said, by way of greeting, as if he hadn't just been vomiting over the side of the wall. As if several lifetimes hadn't passed between their days at the academy and them standing there now, facing each other. "I...how much did you see?"

Dimitri remained planted in place, his arms hidden under his enormous cloak. "I saw you lose your guts over the side of the wall."

Ferdinand tried not to shiver at the wind chilling his shirt, one that had gotten sweaty in the heat of the dining hall and now clung to his skin at the shoulders and his hips. He'd peeled out of his vest earlier when he grew too warm, and now he wasn't sure where it was. "My apologies. That was highly undignified. I think something did not agree with me."

"From what I hear, you aren't too discriminate," Dimitri ground out, standing there like death, like a cold western wind.

Ferdinand wiped his mouth with his hand. "It wasn't the drink."

"I was trying to be delicate." Dimitri's voice faltered, so subtle Ferdinand barely caught it. "I heard Felix say you've been sleeping with anyone who will have you."

A hot flush rushed through Ferdinand's cheeks. He opened his mouth to deny it, to back away, maybe go back into the dining hall, but his boots remained firmly planted on the flagstones. "Not anyone. I do prefer the company of men."

At that, Dimitri raised an eyebrow. A fractional change in expression. A little spark behind the scowl. "Not many here would admit that out loud."

"Well, I am a little different." Ferdinand leaned back against the railing.

"I mean it marks you as Adrestian," Dimitri said, moving in closer. When he did, Ferdinand's pulse fluttered against his clinging shirt. Suddenly, a dozen or so reports rose to the surface of Ferdinand's mind, like some great leviathan swallowing ships. Men with their skulls crushed, their limbs ripped from them. Some skinned. Some of the stories had to be rumors, but it was enough to make Ferdinand wonder what those hands had done.

Ferdinand knew Dimitri was strong enough to flip him over the side of the wall if he wanted to, and Ferdidnand was pretty sure the fall would kill him. Absently, he thought he was about to be murdered. He wondered if he'd live long enough to be horrified that the idea sparked no additional terror; he'd lived under constant threat for five years, what was one more moment?

"Is that what you think when you look at me?" Ferdinand asked, sliding along an edge of raw terror in his mind.

"No," Dimitri admitted after a long pause, several full heartbeats where he loomed over Ferdinand, blocking out what little orange light came from the stained glass windows of the dining hall.

Ferdinand caught the wildest notion that he wanted to be consumed by that mass.

"That is good. I do not know what I would do if you did."

"Maybe a little," Dimitri admitted, taking a step closer. "Maybe I'd rather not think about anything."

Instead of answering, Ferdinand sank to his knees, a feeling roaring in the back of his head like the vibration of a scream.

"I think about things too, that I would rather not, you see," Ferdinand said, voice cracking. "I would do a lot for you if you help me get my mind off of them."

"And what helps you do that?" Dimitri didn't take his eye off of Ferdinand, his hand hanging loosely where Ferdinand knew he kept a dagger, thumb hooked around his belt as Ferdinand landed on the ground at eye level with Dimitri's waist. He looked up, a shake running through him and not from the cold. He shuddered so violently that he had no way of knowing if Dimitri shook too.

Quickly, methodically, Dimitri's hand dropped to the frontal opening of his trousers.

Ferdinand started by tracing a hand up the side of Dimitri's armored thigh, until his palm firmly braced against Dimitri's back.

He leaned forward, and lightly kissed the dagger at Dimitri's hip. His lips, already cold, stung against the old leather. The faint smell of a distant chemical tan filled Ferdinand's mouth and nose, soon overwhelmed by an earthiness he couldn't place. He let the kiss linger for a moment before sliding back onto his heels, head up, facing up at Dimitri's length.

Ferdinand's lips darted out again, and this time, he did feel a light tremor go through Dimitri's body, strong enough that Ferdinand could tell through his armor.

His dry throat grinding like sand, Ferdinand said, “Pain.”

Dimitri fisted a hand in Ferdinand's hair, eye wide, like one of the two ways it could go was him throwing Ferdinand to the ground and fleeing. Ferdinand dropped his head away from the touch, and Dimitri's grip tightened like a vice, like Ferdinand had just got his hair caught in a machine and he was now bound for wherever it took him, whatever its gears twisted him into.

Dimitri waited, watched Ferdinand's face as he leaned into, instead of away from, the pain in his scalp. His neck went lax in Dimitri's hand, letting himself be held up, showing that he was ready to go wherever Dimitri wanted to put him, meanwhile his heart raced. He remembered a time when he'd daydreamed about this, about what his first time with the Faerghan prince might be like. He imagined it as tender—that Dimitri would want to hold him and Ferdinand would want to be held by him. He didn't imagine it out in the cold, that they would both be exiled and sick.

A strong arm pulled Ferdinand closer to Dimitri's belt, and Ferdinand opened his mouth.

He worked his way down the length of Dimitri's cock, grateful for the heat even as it reminded him of his splitting lips. When he paused, Dimitri drew away, his hand still fisted in Ferdinand's hair as his breaths became shakier and less steady, his eye a little less focused.

Ferdinand, as much as he was allowed with the hand in his hair, darted his tongue out to lick the wetness off. He spit-slicked the shaft before Dimitri buried himself to the hilt with a quiet growl. Behind Dimitri's back, Ferdinand pressed his palm painfully into the edge of Dimitri's armor. 

Before long, the hips under his hands, the cock in his mouth, started grinding forward at a steady pace. To the point where Ferdinand simply opened his mouth, relished the stretching feeling as the tip glanced hotly off the back of his throat. Salt and copper filled his mouth and nose, and his own breeches started to feel tight. The heat of their bodies moving together, of the bright, earnest spot of pain in Ferdinand's head and the rhythmic ache in his throat, took some of the sting out of the night air.

Behind them, he heard the sound of the revellers starting up a round, their clumsy, out of key singing drifting out from the hall, and Ferdinand's heart raced at the threat of discovery. It would be very bad for both of them if anyone found out, if anyone saw them, and the thrill of it awoke a little more fire in the pit of Ferdinand's stomach.

After what felt like an eternity—another five years, of nightmares, of seeing Dimitri's head resting five feet away from his body, of Ferdinand seeing his own former classmates set him alight—Dimitri thrust forward, once, violently, and came in the very back of Ferdinand's mouth. Ferdinand swallowed on instinct, and sputtered as Dimitri pulled his cock free.

Ferdinand coughed, his throat raw and his eyes stinging as he leaned against the railing, his arm draped over a break in the ramparts.

When he looked up, Dimitri had already put himself together, and all he saw was that blond head and that cloak vanishing down the stone steps.

With heaving breaths, Ferdinand stayed in place, his hips pressed against the wall, his distressed hair falling over his brow in an auburn haze. His tongue darted out to taste the come, to take traces of blood from his splitting lips.

For the first time in months, Ferdinand smiled.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter 2! I want to take a moment to thank everyone who reviewed the first chapter; I wasn't sure what the interest in this fic would be, and I'm so glad folks are jiving with it. Thank you also for waiting, and I hope this chapter lives up to what you liked about the first one.
> 
> Thank you once more to [Nuanta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nuanta/) for betaing.
> 
> Same as last time, this chapter will also be a little bit of a rough ride. Special warnings are:  
> \- suicidal ideation  
> \- *gestures back to the alcholism tag* Ferdinand continues to be a box of red flags this chapter  
> \- disordered eating  
> \- mild breathplay / threatened breathing (along with the other under-negotiation tag)  
> \- sex in a semi-public place

Ferdinand woke with the ghost of Dimitri still in his mouth.

The whole sequence had been so strange that Ferdinand thought it could be a dream, or a fabrication of his loneliness. As surreal as the tryst had been, he found the anchors in his memory—the feeling of his knees aching on the hard stone, the come in his mouth, Dimitri’s hand fisted in his hair—and traced them back to the mess hall.

His headache wasn’t quite as bad, either, which marked the morning as distinct from others. He celebrated by keeping down his water without complaint, along with one of the stale sweet rolls he’d pilfered from the kitchen.

A quick check and double check of his calendar told him he had a cavalry patrol with Sylvain’s battalion at noon, and there was enough time to wash up before he had to report at the southern gate. A quick appraisal of the wheat in his stomach told him that proper food would likely need to wait until afterwards.

Ferdinand splashed cold water on his face and sighed into his palms.

What had he _done_?

He knew what Dimitri was capable of. He knew it was dangerous to trifle, even as he’d been trifling. It wasn’t unusual for people to be intimate with someone they hated, but if Dimitri concluded that he didn’t want an Adrestian at his back, if he decided Ferdinand wasn’t trustworthy, if he got _scared_ —

Ferdinand swatted at the water in his basin because it was within reach, and the impact from his fingers sprayed a slash of water across his room.

He supposed he’d always wondered about Dimitri. At the Academy, he’d still found the idea of _other men_ absolutely terrifying himself. It had been hard not to watch the Faerghan prince from the other end of the training yard, or to ride ahead with him on the battlefield after joining the Blue Lion class, ready to distinguish himself only to find Dimitri—typically—in no need of his help.

He’d been such a fool, then. Proud of a noble title that would soon be stripped away. Ready to serve an Emperor that had likely planned to eliminate him. Joining a new house because the Professor praised him. Eager to follow Dimitri because Ferdinand smiled at him once by the stables and it had been returned, as if that would mean anything five years down the road.

Well, playing party to a tortured man’s curiosity wasn’t the worst thing he’d done lately. With as quickly as Dimitri had left, Ferdinand had no expectation that the experiment would be repeated.

Ferdinand quickly shaved and dressed. Using a small personal mirror, he adjusted his cravat and ran a rosewood brush through his hair. It had been a gift from Annette, who said something about how her hair was somewhat wavy like his when she did nothing to it, and how brushing would likely help him. He imagined she and the others had grown tired of looking at him, the longer and more ungainly his hair became, but he still appreciated the gesture.

Ferdinand reported at the southern gate to find the rest of the patrol in various states of readiness. About ten horses on hitching posts were positioned at equal distances around the closed market. Volunteer soldiers ran back and forth with armor for the cavalry and tack for the mounts. A few horses nickered softly, and the sound calmed Ferdinand even as the heat and dust aggravated his morning headache. He spied Sylvain chatting with a brunette while he strapped on his horse’s breastplate. The woman in question smiled back as she tightened the cinch.

Avoiding that particular scene with a sidestep, Ferdinand found his designated horse—a lovely lavender-gray mare with a long beard and trimmed feathers at her hooves. He had ridden her before, and knew she could be nippy. He dropped his satchell with his armor behind him. Back in his rooms, he’d lost track of his time and hadn’t had time to properly get ready.

But he could wait.

He ran his hands down the armor on the mare’s neck to make sure it wasn’t chafing, and checked the cinch. She’d been well saddled, and her hooves were clean. Ferdinand furrowed his brow. Usually, he ended up needing to practically redo the entire process, but today, she was ready to go. It was a relief in some ways, though Ferdinand couldn’t deny a hint of disappointment.

“Can I help you with your armor?” A high voice asked clearly behind him.

“No, that is—” Ferdinand turned to see a soldier—a young woman. Her ashy blonde hair was pulled into two loose ponytails, which hung from her shoulders to the breast of her cuirass. She smiled, though it hardly reached her eyes. He was in no position to judge. She held one of his pauldrons in two hands, offering it to him.

“Please, I know it’s easier with two people,” she said. “I just joined up. I want to make myself useful.”

Ferdinand cast his eyes downwards. The whole thing smacked of a nobility he no longer had any claim to. Still, following some hesitation, he held out his arm. She began strapping his pauldron down. She smoothly snapped the leather into place, not too tight and not too loose.

“I can relate to that,” Ferdinand said, as she switched to working on the other pauldron. “Were you the one to ready my horse?” _The_ horse. She wasn’t _his_.

“I did.” A pause. “I hope my job was satisfactory.”

He nodded. “You did a fine job. Did you work with horses before? The war, I mean.”

He couldn’t see her expression, as she moved behind him to fetch his gauntlets from where they rested. “My family runs a stable.”

“I can see you take good care of them.” A greeve was placed over his boot, and she did the same there as she had done with the rest of his armor. “You have done this before, as well?”

There was silence.

“I apologize,” Ferdinand continued. “I meant for someone else.”

“I did, for my brother.”

“Ah, is he a soldier here?”

The silence that followed told Ferdinand he had, once more, made some kind of horrible mistake.

“No,” she said, “he died. At the recent battle of Garreg Mach.”

He realized then that there had been a catch to her voice over the word ‘brother’, a sound at the corner of her mouth like a dagger being twisted. Ferdinand cursed himself silently. “You have my condolences.” In his mind’s eye, he saw lilac soaking through with bright red. “I know it is not the same, but I—”

“You’re the Imperial defector, aren’t you? The one I hear everyone talking about.” Her voice cut in as her work hugged metal to the ankle of his boot. “When Imperial troops occupied my city, I heard rumors about the nobleman fighting with the Kingdom. The former Prime Minister’s son, even.” A pause. “I hope that isn’t too forward of me.”

Taken aback, Ferdinand stalled among the sudden chill to the conversation, and tried to control the bite he felt in his gut at the line of questioning. “I...yes, I suppose I am.”

“They said you left the Emperor’s class at Garreg Mach. When the war broke out, you continued fighting with the Blue Lions, even though it meant forsaking your country. Not to mention your family.” Even though she was still behind him, he could almost hear a vicious smile on her voice. The heat from the sun beat down on them, and his heart raced under his jacket. “Duke Aegir died in prison not long into the war, isn’t that right? He was already under house arrest when it started. It must have been truly brave for you to leave knowing the consequences.”

“That’s what people are saying?” He swallowed, a wave of panic washing through him. Her hands slowed as she finished work on his final piece of armor, and he longed for the patrol to start just so he could be on horseback and free from this conversation. Every word was a blow, though he couldn’t afford to correct her. Could he say he’d stayed not because he’d decided how he felt about the war, but because he feared for his life? What would it mean for him if someone overheard?

“I think it’s very brave.” Behind him, she rose to her feet. Her lips came close enough to his ear to make the hairs on his neck stand up. “If I had done what you did, I’d hang myself.”

The world fractured, and Ferdinand swayed on his feet as his heart thundered. He wanted to say ‘ _excuse me?_ ’, or ‘ _oh no, I’d drown myself in the pond_ ’.

She’d said it at a whisper. Had he even heard it right? Or was it like one of the whispers he heard on the edge of sleep?

He turned to face her, feeling wild, just as a large, armored hand clasped him on the back and knocked out the breath he’d been holding.

Ferdinand coughed. Sylvain came up beside him, causing the young soldier to step back reflexively.

“Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Sylvain said, one arm draped around Ferdinand, even as his eyes stayed warmly fixed on the soldier. “But we really should get going. Do you mind if I steal him from you?”

If anything moved her from stunned silence to indignation, it was the wink Sylvain threw in at the end. She rapidly saluted and turned to shuffle out with the other soldiers. All around Ferdinand, Sylvain’s cavalry mounted up. As the young woman left, Sylvain stepped away from Ferdinand, though he kept his hand on Ferdinand’s shoulder.

“Hey, not to pry,” Sylvain started, in the tone of someone who very much intended to pry, “but what did she say to you just then?”

Ferdinand searched Sylvain’s eyes for some of his usual mirth but found none. He met Ferdinand’s eyes, and Ferdinand squirmed under the attention. Brushing his hair behind his shoulder, he finally said, “It was nothing. She thought the bridle might need oiling.”

“Huh,” Sylvain said. “I must have misheard then.” He clapped Ferdinand on the shoulder again. “We’re leaving in five. Can you ride point?”

Ferdinand nodded. Sylvain would want to keep an eye on him, and the point rider would likely be the first attacked in an ambush. It made sense, even as it stung. With an acknowledging gesture, Sylvain split off back to his own tied horse. At his mounting block, Ferdinand absently checked behind him in the direction the volunteers had left in. They had all gone, including the young woman.

As Ferdinand rode out of the gates, he let the breeze wash over him, settled into the familiar feeling of a horse underneath him as he and the rest of the patrol left the gates at a trot. He resisted the urge to post—Faerghan soldiers rode a seated jog, and posting was another thing that made him stand out.

As they freed themselves from the narrow trail winding down from the monastery, their pace increased. Ferdinand eased into the lightness in his mind, his mind conjuring an operatic waltz to the steady three-beat rhythm of the canter.

He truly loved to ride.

Still, his mind wandered.

He didn’t particularly care about what she’d said. Clearly, the young woman had experienced a truly devastating loss recently. She probably hadn’t been thinking about her words. Ferdinand understood that, and was in no position to hold it against her. He was sure there was no ill intent—she would have no reason to despise him for leaving the Empire, and he’d never met her before in his life, so she likely didn’t hate him for his personality. Despite his memory having grown fuzzier of late, he was as sure of that as he could possibly be.

And yet, his mind worked at the puzzle like a tongue on a sore tooth. It was aggravating, and yet he couldn’t stop poking at a memory he did not have.

Why did he feel like he knew her?

The fresh air of a ride had always been good for him, even if that ride was occupied by scanning the countryside for any sign of impending attack, and returning greetings from the townsfolk. There was a thought among the people that the Kingdom would set things right, whispers of Emperor Edelgard’s first true challenger in the war emerging from the gutted remains of the Officer’s Academy.

As the patrol rode among waving hands, Ferdinand couldn’t help but wonder if the Kingdom’s presence there would only draw attention to people who had previously been overlooked. Still, it had lifted his mood. Perhaps tonight he wouldn’t drink. Perhaps he’d take a break from his nightly mission of finding a bedfellow.

Those thoughts did not live long.

His mood fled almost as soon as he rode back through the gates. The market was open, and as the patrol settled, he spied Byleth ordering new weapons with the blacksmith. A perfectly normal place to see their eponymous Professor, and yet a hot poker started working its way through Ferdinand’s chest when he saw the Sword of the Creator in Byleth’s hands.

He held it casually for examination by the smith, but Ferdinand’s stomach churned at the memory of its vertebrae moving through flesh. He could still hear the pop as each one entered and exited—it was a perfect relic, capable of everything but a painless kill. Ferdinand didn’t realize he was wavering in his saddle until he needed to grab the horn to stabilize himself.

Whatever part of him wanted to approach Byleth, to apologize for being reckless and unreasonable, vanished the second he saw that sword in his hands. Ferdinand dismissed himself at the earliest opportunity, even leaving his horse in the hand of a volunteer to untack and help her cool down—the young soldier from before was nowhere in sight.

He retreated to the mess hall to grab a late, cold lunch before the evening’s recreations began. It eased his nausea rather than exacerbated it, which told him he perhaps could have eaten earlier.

The sun was setting by the time Ferdinand ambled from the mess hall to his quarters. It cast a bloody glow around the buildings. Where it glanced off stone, the walls looked painted, and that sunset reflecting off the cracked glass of the cathedral made it look like the war had already arrived across the canyon to burn its spires from the inside out.

He’d beat the dinner rush, and the nightly party forming just as he left. Perhaps he’d wander down later, after most of the former Blue Lions would have returned to their own beds and he could trawl for company without much fear of someone reporting back to Byleth. Maybe tonight he’d crash the gaming tables that were set up in the reception hall after the other officers went to sleep.

He could start drinking early, that way anyone watching would only see him have one or two.

He climbed the stairs back to his room, hand bumping along the rough, old walls of the stairwell. When he rounded the top floor, he saw a mountain in the hallway.

Dimitri stared out one of the windows opposite the long row of mostly empty rooms, his height and furred cloak nearly filling the walkway.

Something caught in Ferdinand’s throat. This was the second time in two days he’d seen Dimitri outside the cathedral, and it was shocking to see his bulk in a place as mundane as the lodging area. It made him seem bigger, somehow, like a hungry bear ready to fight its way out of a narrow space, to the point where Ferdinand instinctively began back down the stairs, for fear of cornering him.

Dimitri must have heard him, because he owlishly swiveled his head so his intact eye faced Ferdinand, who paused in his efforts to retreat back down the stairs. He swallowed at the intensity there—and felt it twice as keenly now that he was regrettably sober.

Steeling himself, Ferdinand ascended the final step of the staircase and turned down the hall.

“Can I...Do you require assistance?” He tried to keep his voice from shaking as he approached Dimitri.

Dimitri blinked, refocused on Ferdinand, as if he struggled to fixate on his voice, as if he’d heard something off somewhere else. “Were you wondering if what happened last night was real?”

Ferdinand blinked in earnest confusion. He then ran a finger over his chapped lips, lingering in the places with healing splits—the ones that hadn’t been helped by Dimitri’s cock stretching them out. “I will admit to a moment of doubt, but I presume you do not want to talk about that.”

Dimitri bristled. “If I didn’t want to talk about it, I wouldn’t have brought it up.”

“It happened,” Ferdinand returned.

Dimitri’s hand twitched—almost nervously—at his side. “Why did it happen?”

Ferdinand anxiously approached Dimitri, even as something in him screamed not to, the same way he felt standing next to a wild and wounded animal.

Dimitri could be there because he regretted having a man’s mouth on him. He could be there to kill Ferdinand and make his skull a gift for Edelgard at Gronder—a gift she would perhaps earnestly accept. He didn’t think so, but the possibility prickled the hairs on his skin. Still, he approached, moved into Dimitri’s space, within reach.

“The same reason you did, I hope—I wanted to.” He gulped, watching every rigid muscle—as if he could see an explosion coming. He knew he was playing with fire, so why couldn’t he leave?

The sound that came out of Dimitri could only be described as a grunt of acknowledgement, and a part of Ferdinand’s spine relaxed. He kept his eyes on Dimitri though,

“You came here,” Ferdinand felt out each word as he spoke, “to ask that?”

“Mostly.” Dimitri turned to face him. “You like sex?”

Ferdinand flinched. “It passes the time and it keeps me warm.”

Dimitri’s other hand reached to pull his cloak tighter around him. “And you don’t feel any shame?”

When Ferdinand’s cheeks grew hot, he crossed his arms. He considered lying, considered the proud response. Instead, he said, “Of course I do.” A beat. “If you want to know why, you would have to ask your countrymen why they have an easier time going to bed with me than each other.”

“You said you like pain,” Dimitri said, and Ferdinand caught the barest hint of emotion on Dimitri’s word, a trace of doubt.

“The kind of pain you are talking about keeps my mind quiet. I _like_ trusting people,” Ferdinand said. That was a half lie, but he let it stand.

Dimitri loomed into him, over him, and Ferdinand held his ground despite the electricity in his bones. Something pulled him away from Dimitri, and something else drew him closer. They were nearly touching then, all one of them would have to do is reach out, or lean down, although Ferdinand didn’t think there would be any kissing.

“Do you trust me?” Dimitri’s voice swam over him, holding all kinds of promises and a fear Ferdinand couldn’t place.

“That depends.” Moving slowly, Ferdinand reached out to Dimitri’s mailed hand. His glove slipped on the smooth metal there, and his own pulse took off, as if his heart might burst right out through his coat and cover them both in gore. Neither of them would be a stranger to it. Especially not Dimitri, Ferdinand surmised. “Is it okay if I take this off?”

There was a long pause as Dimitri stared, eye wide at Ferdinand’s hand on his. He blinked, and silently gave his assent with a curt nod.

Carefully, Ferdinand removed the glove and the greave. It took a moment of doing, to figure out where the mail and the plate met, but eventually he slipped it off to reveal a pale hand underneath it.

Dimitri stared at his own hand as if it was an alien thing. “I’ve done monstrous things with it. That should bother you.”

“Well, monstrous deeds or not, this is definitely a human hand.” Watching Dimitri carefully, Ferdinand examined calloused palms and taut knuckles, feeling out Dimitri’s long fingers. He found the scars, the knotted ligaments, the awkward spots where bones had been broken and healed naturally. “Maybe I do not have reason to be bothered by much.”

When he was, once more, sure Dimitri wouldn’t flee, Ferdinand took Dimitri’s fingers in one hand and his thumb in the other, spreading his hand wide, and brought the flat of Dimitri’s palm up to his throat, the same way he would put on a necklace—

“ _If I had done what you’ve done, I’d hang myself._ ”

—or a noose.

He looked back up to Dimitri, whose eye was stuck on him, his mouth a grim flat line as Ferdinand started backing up to the wall, his hand still holding the cold marble of Dimitri’s hand to his throat. It was surprisingly steady and sure, and Dimitri’s expression unreadable. As odd of a dance as it was, Ferdinand felt a tremor of relief up his spine when he was pressed between the wall and Dimitri.

Ferdinand was wrong; he wasn’t playing with fire. Fire was safer.

At least when Ferdinand’s hand went slowly for Dimitri’s belt, he got some indication that Dimitri knew what he intended, a downward flicker of his eye, a slight flexing of his hand. This time, Ferdinand’s other hand went to his own belt. He unbuttoned his own trousers, and shuddered at the wash of cool air on his warming cock.

“What do you think I am?” Dimitri asked, his hand still hooked around Ferdinand’s jaw. Reflexively, Ferdinand fidgeted between Dimitri and the wall at his back. He wasn’t squeezing, but he truly had a grip like iron.

“That seems like a dangerous question,” Ferdinand responded. “I could ask you the same. Would you want to answer, or do you want my hand on you?”

Instead of answering, there was a pause, a flicker at Dimitri’s mouth. Ferdinand wondered what the problem was, until Dimitri’s thumb trailed a line at the top of Ferdinand’s cravat, right through the path of the bruise another man had left there. “Someone hurt you?”

“I asked him to.” Ferdinand’s own voice sounded sheepish to his ears.

“Are you asking me to hurt you?”

“Not yet.” Ferdinand swallowed, and his throat fluttered against Dimitri’s palm. It was a nice feeling, secure but—“I will repeat my question until you indicate you would like to continue.”

Dimitri’s response was his free hand dropping to one of Ferdinand’s and practically slam his palm into his hardening member. With a smirk, Ferdinand made quick work of the buttons there. Ferdinand felt a scary quiver in Dimitri’s hand as Ferdinand wrapped his fingers around both their cocks. Dimitri’s shoulders folded forward, and Ferdinand felt himself pressed slightly harder into the wall. It sent a pulse through him that he gladly stroked.

He palmed and lightly squeezed Dimitri’s cock, though the hand at his throat never tightened. As he blindly ran his finger over the slit, Dimitri’s free hand pressed up to the wall. Ferdinand groaned along with the wooden plank, filling his mind with every crackle and simultaneously driving it blissfully blank.

He swam with that tension, that uncertainty. Ferdinand watched Dimitri tilt his head forward, hide under frayed blond bangs as his mouth flickered between expressions—at times a growl that showed teeth when Ferdinand slid his grip down to the base of Dimitri’s shaft, at other times open-mouthed surprise when Ferdinand would release his grip and instead lightly drag his fingers back to the tip.

It was easy enough to see to himself. He’d had a lot of hands around him, but Dimitri’s was broad and undeniably strong.

Ferdinand wondered what would happen if the Blaiddyd crest activated right then. Nothing good, of course, except the threat of it, and Ferdinand arched his head back, bathed in that threat as Dimitri’s finger tips gave little pulsating twitches on his skin. With each spasm, Ferdinand rutted up into his own palm, dragging his hips off the back wall and driving his body up into the hand at his throat.

As he did, Dimitri’s hips never rolled, or rather, they would occasionally snap forward as he’d let out a breath he’d been holding. Through half-lidded eyes, Ferdinand saw Dimitri’s eye squeeze shut, the skin at the corner crinkled as his cheeks went bright pink. Ferdinand’s pace increased, working Dimitri’s cock with a stroke, a very gentle twist, and—

With a particularly eager thrust, Dimitri spilled in Ferdinand’s hand.

Dimitri’s shoulder shoved forward with his orgasm, and Ferdinand felt the crack in the wood more than saw it. The hand at his throat flexed ever so slightly, the tendons of Dimitri’s wrist playing through his fingers like piano strings, just enough to fill Ferdinand with a moment of near-perfect terror.

Ferdinand came into his other hand, riding out his own climax with a few final, languid strokes as his back fell into the wall with a thud.

Ferdinand’s head rolled around, he blinked at the stained glass even when the light disappeared behind fur as Dimitri leaned forward, pressed his head into the wall near the crook of Ferdinand’s neck. Dimitri panted into the wall as his confused hand dropped from Ferdinand’s throat to the flat of his chest. Ferdinand resisted the instinct to wrap his arms around Dimitri’s waist, embrace him like pugilists in the last round of a match, drunk on sweat and fists. Or like lovers in an opera, but that Ferdinand definitely didn’t want.

“We have an answer to your first question, Dimitri,” Ferdinand said, quietly, into the ear by his lips. “It looks like I can trust you.”

“Today,” Dimitri said back, at something darker than a whisper. Ferdinand should have been alarmed, if it wasn’t exactly what part of him wanted to hear.

The thump-thump-thump of footsteps coming up the stairs was the only thing that could have overwhelmed the steady, post-orgasm pounding of his heart. Dimitri heard those steps before Ferdinand did. They mutually split apart. Dimitri put himself away and headed down the hall at a brisk march without looking back while Ferdinand closed his coat over his waist and bolted the last few feet to his door. If he slammed it behind him, it was from surprise.

Safe in his room, he worked on cleaning up more properly. All desire he had to go back out had dwindled in the face of the sheer mortification he felt at the idea that they could have been walked in on.

Or rather, that had perhaps been part of it. Not that Ferdinand had actually expected anyone to walk up the stairs right then.

Instead of his original plan, Ferdinand stripped and fell back into bed early—spent, sober, and alone.

Ferdinand surprised himself. He could have thought about the orgasm, about how cleverly he’d followed Byleth’s request to avoid more bruises. Instead, he went to sleep thinking of the feeling of Dimitri pinning him to the wall after they’d come, when they were both dizzy with the aftermath, when Dimitri blocked out the world and all Ferdinand could hear or feel was the sound of them both breathing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, a little bit of a shorter update this time. A quick interlude in the greenhouse to reflect on some of what's happened previously. Major thanks to [Nuanta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nuanta/) for beta'ing this (and beta'ing it at like lightning speed so I could get it out today).
> 
> There are not really specific warnings for this chapter that are not present in the rest of the fic, but this chapter prominently features the physical impact that Ferdinand is feeling from his alcoholism, as well as Ferdinand's ongoing struggle to deal with his resulting grief about Myrddin.
> 
> [PLEASE ALSO CHECK OUT THESE SPECTACULAR COMIC PAGES FROM ISA FOR CHAPTER ONE.](https://twitter.com/imperata0207/status/1264907572210888707?s=20) Thank you SO MUCH and I still just gently paw my screen every time I see them ;w;

At a war room meeting, Gilbert brought Byleth’s attention to some trouble the Fraldarius supply lines were experiencing with bandits, a little to the north and just west of Ailell, which coincidentally was roughly where Ferdinand would position his status on any one day, were he pressed to give a geographic location to it.

When Byleth left to rout the bandits, he took a handful of the former Lions, as well as some of the Knights of Seiros. Ferdinand wasn’t shocked at being left out, exactly, though it still stung.

What surprised him was the absence of a lumbering shadow at the edge of his vision—of straw hair and black and white furs and truly massive shoulders no longer lingering in the corners of the monastery. Ferdinand learned from Ashe that Byleth had opted to take Dimitri along with him. He couldn’t say he was surprised that neither one of them had said goodbye—nor did he expect it—but it still left him with a stark awareness of their absence, one that he had difficulty placing and understanding in light of other, more permanent wounds in his life. Byleth, Dimitri and the others would likely return to the empty edges, rooms, and chairs that made Ferdinand’s skin itch, but when he counted familiar faces and came up short, he felt disquieted.

The days came and went, and again Ferdinand was lulled into the feeling that what had happened between him and Dimitri had been some kind of dream, all while his nightmares grew worse. He remembered madly thinking that Dimitri smelled like musk and evergreens, but after two days those memories faded to the point where Ferdinand doubted their veracity.

Coincidentally, some of the partying had died down, leaving the army to sober at the prospect of a battle at Gronder at the end of the month. There were still little gatherings—men letting off steam at night, but Ferdinand didn’t seek their company and they didn’t seek his. The card games grew more muted and the drinking a little less enthusiastic as every regular soldier steadily realized that they could be dead before Harpstring Moon.

As the world slowed, Ferdinand found that his didn’t. Instead, it grew quieter. On days when he didn’t have any official duties, he started drinking after breakfast with a splash from his flask into a cup of tea. Without Byleth around, he was assigned few official duties.

He was not a complete layabout. He went to the stable and he went to the church, where he attempted to pray and heard only silence or choir practice.

That Thursday, Ferdinand finally shoved a few of his clothes into sacks for the launderers. His room had a kind of organized chaos to it—though he knew where everything was, occasionally the sprawling coats, smallclothes, and various tools and implements began to wear down on him, crowding in around his vision like a miasma, and he had to do something about the rumpled garments and dust.

He’d just dropped them off unceremoniously with the launderers when someone came up beside him. “Excuse me.”

Fighting his headache, Ferdinand looked behind him to see Dedue walking with a sheath of tools around his waist and a pair of hefty bags of soil in each arm.

Quickly, Ferdinand darted to the side, only to find out there was not much room left on the path. “My apologies.”

“It is no problem,” Dedue said, trying to move past Ferdinand. His eyes stayed averted somewhat, too forcefully stuck to the ground just to help him find his way.

Ferdinand couldn’t remember if he’d always done that or if it had been some product of his long absence—regrettably, even after Ferdinand joined Byleth’s class, he’d not spent much time talking to Dedue, so much as he had naturally gravitated towards Dimitri and Dedue had been there. When he heard of Dedue’s death, Ferdinand had starkly felt every missed opportunity.

Not that now was the time to make up for some foolish oversight from their school days. Not that Dedue necessarily wanted him to, but—

“Actually, if you are free, I could use a hand.”

“Oh.” As Dedue took another step, Ferdinand walked along with him, gesturing to one of the large bags as he spoke. “Of course. Here, allow me.”

Dedue paused, and Ferdinand tried not to cower away from his green eyes. He fidgeted somewhat, though he kept his arms open.

With a sigh and a slight smile, Dedue’s expression relaxed. “Thank you.” When he transitioned ownership of a single bag into Ferdinand’s arms, Ferdinand swayed somewhat with a wave of dizziness, kept in check only by carefully adjusting his weight over his legs to keep himself from toppling over. He _had_ the strength for this, surely. He knew despite his pounding heart and the roar in his ears. Perhaps he hadn’t been keeping up as well as he should have. If Dedue noticed him falter, he said nothing, and Feridnand was able to brace the bag against his own shoulder. No matter how misused they were, it felt good—familiar—for his muscles to stretch and burn.

With a smile to show that he was having no trouble at all, Ferdinand began following Dedue as they passed the former dormitories on the way towards the greenhouse.

They traveled with the silence of those unaccustomed to speaking with one another, irrespective of whether they wanted to or not. Ferdinand half-started questions about how Dedue felt about the weather, the plants, the Monastery cats...but all died as he thought of how close Dedue followed Dimitri, his mind turning into a blank slate when he remembered that just a few days ago Dimitri’s cock had been in his mouth and hand respectively. How Dedue had been suspiciously not with Dimitri when Ferdinand was.

That meant a couple things: Dimitri had either slipped from Dedue’s steadfast vision, or Dimitri had taken his leave of Dedue. Either event Dedue would have noticed, would have considered.

Or had he been there after all. Asked to hang back around the corner or stand on lookout while Dimitri indulged...something. A sport of kings. As the possibility occurred to him, Ferdinand’s ears burned with more than just exertion.

“Are you surprised I am not with the others?” Dedue asked as they walked.

Ferdinand, still struggling with the weight of his bag and his thoughts, forced the tremor from his voice. “I suppose it struck me as a little odd.”

“It’s true,” Dedue offered. “After my long absence, it’s not my wish to be separated from His Highness for long.”

“That is understandable.” Ferdinand glanced left at Dedue as he spoke, tried to follow the lines of his face to see the concern there, the worry that had to tail every waking moment of Dedue’s life like a wild and hungry animal. “You have been Dimitri’s friend for a long time.”

“He has had my loyalty for many years.” Dedue’s mouth turned downwards. It was a flicker, a break in a ceaselessly calm persona. ”Seeing him in such pain weighs heavily on my heart.”

“I am glad you were able to return to him.” Ferdinand’s mouth felt dry. Dimitri had gotten someone _back_ on Myrddin, and he couldn’t keep an angry, jealous little flame from lancing through him. That was not fair—he had been as glad to see Dedue alive as anyone, and he still was, as foreign as gladness seemed to him. They should have had another joining them afterwards. He _offered_ to join them—

“I am as well.” Dedue smiled. A true, genuine smile, and any bitterness in Ferdinand’s heart vanished. Without the envy, he only felt empty.

They approached a stone staircase. Ferdinand had to force aside a wave of vertigo as he cautiously reached one hand out towards the railing to stabilize himself.

When the Lions returned to Garreg Mach, Ashe personally oversaw the restoration of the greenhouse. Getting replacement glass panels for the ones that had been broken took some doing with limited funds, but the prospect of being able to grow vegetables and medicinal herbs made up Byleth’s mind fairly quickly. The structure was stabilized, and the glass was a patchwork of old, warped slates and shining—if cheap—new ones.

Dedue led Ferdinand to a freshly cleared section of raised beds near the back, old soil and weeds had been scraped away to reveal a layer of smooth gravel underneath, and Ferdinand was finally able to deposit his charge. He tried not to make it too obvious how heavily he was breathing. He did, however, drop to his knees as Dedue sliced open the first bag with a knife and began laying the soil with gloved hands. Wordlessly, Ferdinand did the same, the sweet smell of the garden, calming him somewhat as dirt collected under his fingernails.

“What are you hoping to plant here?” Ferdinand asked.

Dedue motioned to a row of small pots with oddly shaped, small plants in each one. Some of the were the color of jade with teardrop arms and others were small, spiny blooms.

“I remember you spent a lot of time in the greenhouse when we were at the Officer’s Academy.”

“Indeed,” Dedue said. “I raised flora native to my home. They require a great deal of care, and most of them died when the monastery was abandoned.”

Ferdinand cast his eyes down to his hands. It was comforting, somehow, to hear the sorrow in Dedue’s voice over plants, living things that he’d cared for and wanted to see flourish. Small casualties, ultimately, but his hopes for them had been real.

Biting his lip, Ferdinand dared a question. “Do you think roses would grow in here?”

To Ferdinand’s relief and disappointment, Dedue merely looked confused. “I do not see why not. Though a trellis outside would give them more room to grow. You could perhaps speak to the gardener.” He paused. “Do you like roses?”

“As much as anyone does.” He nodded along as Dedue calmly suggested the one thing that Ferdinand would not do. How would he explain the sudden interest or the pinch of gray he might be able to put under each ugly root? “It is nothing. A passing thought.”

After some time of quiet work had passed, Dedue said, “Ferdinand, may I be blunt?”

Instead of offering the dozen excuses or rushed apologies that wanted to flow from his mouth, Ferdinand simply said, “You may.”

Dedue’s mouth fell into a hard line. “I have noticed His Highness paying you some...attention.”

A bolt of panic shot down Ferdinand’s spine. Dedue knew. Of course, Ferdinand hadn’t exactly been trying to hide his activities, any of them. At least Dedue wouldn’t hold it against Dimitri—Ferdinand didn’t think he would, anyway. He still felt a pang of guilt that he couldn’t place. “I have noticed the same.”

“I see. He has not exactly been subtle.” Green eyes bored into him, and Ferdinand kept his back straight over his aching knees. “I do not want to be intrusive, but I am curious about the nature of that attention. From your perspective.”

“I do not mean to be evasive, but I truly am not at liberty to say.” That was the truth. He and Dimitri had never talked about how secret their encounters were supposed to be. If Dedue didn’t know, it wouldn’t be right to tell him about their encounters. “You would have to ask Dimitri. I am honestly not sure I know.” Ferdinand’s hands froze on a particularly rich clump of earth. “If I may ask, what have you noticed?”

Dedue paused for a heartbeat before leaning back over the bed and continuing to spread soil. “I have seen him watching you, since the week after we returned from Alliance territory. In the church. When I could convince him to find food. He does not notice many people at the moment.” Dedue spoke matter-of-factly, even as Ferdinand’s mind followed along, clumsily seeking answers. “Yet he noticed you.”

Ferdinand’s eyes widened. Two weeks ago was well before the first time Dimitri had come to him. The idea that their encounters had been more than some strange, wild impulse was a new one to him.

Ferdinand suppressed a kind of fear—dulled but familiar, like a habit. He knew it was dangerous. Perhaps he enjoyed it a little bit. He’d have spared a moment to wonder how close he was really coming to disaster if he wasn’t already dancing on a burning gallows. Suddenly, the greenhouse felt claustrophobic. “Do you believe it is because of my association with Edelgard?”

“I will admit I had concerns, but that is not the man I know.” Dedue answered firmly but with a resolute fondness in his voice that was not for Ferdinand. “I recognize that from your perspective it may feel like that man is gone.”

“To tell you the truth, it overjoyed me to hear that Dimitri was alive. The Professor as well.” Only to realize he didn’t know either one of them when he arrived at Garreg Mach. Not anymore. “I cannot imagine his ordeal.”

Next to him, Dedue retrieved a trowel from his belt and began digging small divots in the freshly enriched bed.

Ferdinand grabbed for a similar looking tool and followed suit, continuing in silence before the thought on his mind stumbled out of his mouth. “Please know, it is not my intention to be in your way—”

“You are not,” Dedue answered quickly. “There is...a great deal of history between His Highness and myself. Including years of understanding that came before our parting.”

Ferdinand nodded tightly. His hands hurt.

“Ferdinand, if I may say one more thing.” Dedue squeezed his eyes shut. “He has a gentle heart. I do not know what is going on but...I would ask you to be careful with it.”

Ferdinand couldn’t begin to guess at what Dedue was implying, all he heard was the swell of emotion in his voice, as if entrusting something priceless with someone who could only barely understand its function. He wasn’t worthy to _hear_ it.

He shook his head. “With all due respect, I am afraid there may be a misunderstanding.”

“Please, just think on my words.” Dedue reached for an emerald plant with thick, radial leaves that Ferdinand didn’t recognize, and gently tucked it into the soil. “Even here, there are many who see him for the worst of what he is.”

“You can say ‘Felix’. It is all right.” Ferdinand let it slip out before he could stop himself.

He’d hoped that would earn a laugh, but instead Dedue’s face fell further, flickered into anger and back to practiced placidity. “Among others.”

Throat tight, Ferdinand reached for the rows of little potted plants and found a cactus with a light pink bloom sprouting from its head. His hands shook, a little thorn catching him as he tried to nest it into one of the sloppy holes he’d made. He wiped his hand on his pant leg, hoping Dedue had missed the blood beading through the coating of dirt on his fingers.

But Dedue was preoccupied with planting row after row, occasionally pausing to remove a dead leaf or pluck disease from the body of a sprout. They continued wordlessly, this silence at least less uncomfortable than before.

Ferdinand stayed until every plant was safe in its new home. By the time they were done, the small of his back hurt. Dedue thanked him, and Ferdinand mumbled something about going to get supper. Instead of heading to the mess hall, he took a right towards his quarters. He squirmed after he left, a cold wind cooling his damp skin and freezing hands already chilled from gardening without gloves.

It had been nice, quietly working with Dedue, though it left Ferdinand buried even deeper in a pit of questions.

That night he fell asleep with pine whiskey on his tongue and had dreams about his hands clawing through gravesoil.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo, an update! It felt like a bunch of my other projects slammed me all at once, plus a little bit of burnout, but it's back, all!
> 
> So, to my knowledge, this chapter has the same major warnings as the rest of the fic. It remains explicit with Ferdinand continuing to show some major red flags as a result of his grief and isolation. I suppose the only additional warning for this chapter is that there is specifically a penetrative sex scene.
> 
> Hoping to update this more regularly going forward. I've got a Lot of ground to cover. A quick heads up that the chapter count may end up dropping as I'm making some adjustments to the outline for my own sanity, but if that happens I'll be sure to announce it on my Twitter and here in a future A/N. It probably wouldn't be by a lot, and it would mostly just be to tighten up the story. This is also the longest chapter yet! So, that's exciting!
> 
> Thank you as always to Steph for beta'ing~ (and catching the three paragraphs where I just, swapped to present tense for no reason).

The reception hall hummed with subdued voices and the sound of cards gently pattering on tables. It had filled with two kinds of smoke and smelled like spirits. It wasn’t always like this, of course. During the day it served as a mailroom, a command center, or whatever else was most needed. After the attack on the monastery, it had even become an auxiliary infirmary, though without enough healers in the Faerghan forces it quickly turned into a morgue.

But, when there was no other use for it, the soldiers set up various games around the hall, smoked, and gambled. And drank.

Ferdinand wasn’t the only one from command that joined them—affable but sly Ashe was a frequent visitor, as was Annette, who had excitedly asked a couple women from her battalion to teach her the rules and show her how to play. It made quite the sight; tiny Annette playing barroom poker with a circlet of large men, two armed women at her side, and Mercedes standing at her shoulder, encouraging her and also acting as a ward against the fouler language of a game room.

Ferdinand wouldn’t even say he visited them the _most_ out of everyone in command, but the tides of his mood that night left him not wanting to be alone. With Byleth and Dimitri both away, there was nothing to tempt him to try his luck with the prince a third time. He decided to try his luck at the tables instead.

All in all, his luck was not bad.

He won a cigarillo with a royal flush in his first round, and a mage from Ashe’s battalion helped him light it with the world’s smallest flare of reason magic. Ferdinand had thanked him, smiling and winking through the puff of smoke, but the mage had quickly returned to his own seat, shoulders and back rigid under the lines of his robes. So, Ferdinand had puffed on his smoke and won twice more—a small bottle of rare port he certainly wouldn’t be saving, and a canister of a Southern Fruit Blend tea that he had been determined to win at all costs. On another round, he lost a box of chocolates, and was just about to call it a night when a winter chill blew in.

It wasn’t that cold, but every head turned to the open door as Byleth, Gilbert, and Felix all came walking through the door. All of them were a bit worse for wear. Gilbert’s armor was scuffed, Felix nursed a cut over his right eye, and Byleth had a nasty tear in his coat that looked as though it could easily have been fatal with the wrong angle. They looked as though they were headed for the Knight’s Hall, and Ferdinand waited for Byleth to look his way.

Instead, he walked by, muttering some strategy or concern with Gilbert, and the liveliness of the reception hall returned once the assembled soldiers realized no one was about to give them an order.

Ferdinand watched them go, then batted off ashes like a drum to his souring mood. Byleth had not even...noticed him. Had not even turned to look. Surely he’d seen him there? Or did the smoke disguise him that well?

However, if Byleth and the others were back, then that meant...

Ferdinand played—and folded—one more round before calling it a night. Leaden with his new prizes, he took his leave.

First, he left in the direction of the Knight’s Hall, and saw no ghosts clinging to the outside of it, nor did he see anyone in the graveyard.

It was only when he changed direction and began ambling back towards his dormitory that he finally spied Dimitri, and his heart skipped a beat when he did, a little hot tightening that he felt from his sternum to...quite a bit lower than his sternum.

Ferdinand avoided lingering on the bridge as a rule of thumb, but Dimitri looked to have planted himself out under a waxing, silvery moon. It made him look gray, spectral, dead, and Ferdinand couldn’t figure out what he was looking at: the moon, the stars, the monastery or—as Ferdinand often did—the height of the thing.

Ferdinand took a deep breath to steady himself and set his course. He kept his footfalls loud so as not to surprise him, and he shuddered at the chill against his shirt, still sweaty from a night of gambling and smoking. His cigarillo was almost burned out, but he took another puff just to keep his chest warm.

At first, he was worried Dimiri wouldn’t see him, but he was acknowledged with one eye and the bag underneath it that looked a little more sunken than before.

Dimitri turned back to the view. “What do you want?”

Ferdinand paused, well out of arm’s reach and let out a cloud of smoke through his nose. “I saw the professor and Gilbert had returned, and assumed you were back as well.”

“ _Back_. As if I ever really leave this place.” Dimitri made a noise that was not quite a derisive snort. “When I fall, I’m sure I’ll return to haunt this damn monastery. Like a demon.”

Ferdinand refrained from pointing out that that was not what a demon did, but instead leaned back against the railing, his arms propped up on the merlons on either side and his back sinking halfway through the crenel in the middle. “Dedue asked for my help in the greenhouse.”

“Dedue spends a lot of time in the greenhouse.” There was a nervous energy in Dimitri’s voice, rattling and barely contained. “Am I supposed to be impressed?”

“He asked about what your interest in me was, and I did not know what to tell him.”

As soon as he said it, Dimitri violently tensed up. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised he noticed something.”

“At the risk of sounding too forward,” Ferdinand said, leaning back with his arms outstretched, “I would dare say he cares for you.”

“I don’t want him to,” Dimitri snapped. His hands gripped the granite hard enough that Ferdinand heard the metal grind on granite. “It almost got him killed once.” He rounded on Ferdinand. “Don’t overestimate yourself. We may both regret it.”

At that, Ferdinand nearly laughed as though it was the funniest joke he’d ever heard. That Dimitri would say that about Byleth’s _stupid_ , _loathesome_ , _weak-willed_ recruit was almost a relief to hear out loud. Ferdinand knew it, and wished he’d thought to drink himself numb back in the reception hall.

“There is no need to be _redundant_.” Like Ferdinand was. They did not need him. No one— “I know my value, and if you wish for me to leave you alone, I will take it elsewhere. Away from whatever mood this is.”

“ _Mood_?” Dimitri’s head whipped around to him again, so hard the ragged blond bangs slapped against his nose. Somehow, in the moonlight, Ferdinand could almost see his cheeks going scarlet, and there was no way to tell if the flush was rage or something else. “You’re the first to put it so lightly.”

“What would you call it?” Ferdinand asked through another wave of smoke.

When he looked up, he saw more tension in Dimitri’s body, like a frozen tree, ready to explode before bending.

Ferdinand went to sit up, but his wrist slipped, suddenly lilting him further through the gap in the wall. He wouldn’t have gone all the way out—probably—but he still felt the little sink in his gut as he lost his stability. Before he could do anything about it, Dimitri’s hand was at the base of his collar, hauling him up and tossing him towards the center of the bridge.

“What are you doing?” Dimitri growled as Ferdinand scrambled dizzily to his feet, massaged his scraped knees, and took a moment to make sure he hadn’t swallowed the lit cigarillo. He hadn’t, and was able to pick it up by the glowing end and wipe it off with his thumb. A quick appraisal determined he was mostly intact, his heart beginning to race a few seconds after it would have done him any good.

Ferdinand gestured. “I had it—” _perfectly under control_. He had not. His hand fell with a dull thump to his thigh as the sharp pain set into his knees. “Thank you.”

Dimitri stared at him, the black of his eye drowning out the blue. He looked as though he intended to say something else cruel, or cutting, and Ferdinand figured he might as well, but nothing came. Ferdinand dusted off his pants and took another long puff. As the glowing orange tip flared up, it brightened both their faces. He held it up with two fingers. “Do you…?”

Dimiri scowled, retreating back into his cloak. “I don’t remember you smoking.”

“I never did before.” Ferdinand felt heat in his cheeks, sharp against the cold air as a kind of faint dizziness overcame him, then faded.

“When did you start?”

Ferdinand knit his brow together. He couldn’t quite remember. It sounded vain, even in the privacy of his own mind, but when he’d taken shelter with House Fraldarius, the footsoldiers had given him the time of day. It never became regular—but he had tasted his first varieties of alcohols and burned no less than three different substances. He’d been proud of himself for moderating, then. Saving it for Friday nights or after long battles. His father’s vices didn’t need to be his. His natural impulsiveness, constrained by his noble standard, had been successfully tempered far away from Enbarr.

“I suspect you do not actually want to know.” Ferdinand shrugged his shoulders.

Dimitri scowled. “You’re the one who sought me out.”

“You never answered my question.” Ferdinand sniffed. “Dedue asked me and I did not know what to tell him.”

He couldn’t quite read the expression on Dimitri’s face, though he saw it change. “Tell him you’re not my lover.”

Ferdinand had no expectation that that would be the case, but hearing the words still hurt him in some low spot, pulverized but still sensitive. “I knew that.” He bit his lip. “But you came to me for a reason. That first night.” And the last time.

Dimitri said nothing, and he vanished once more behind furs and the mess of his hair. Ferdinand wondered how dangerous the ground he tread on really was.

“Well, I have a proposition,” Ferdinand started. “I may not be the most astute man, but my impression is that you are curious. You have perhaps satisfied that curiosity.” He tapped lightly on his thigh, decidedly not watching Dimitri’s reaction. “However, there is more we could do, and I do not wish to be alone tonight.”

“More like what?”

Ferdinand didn’t laugh, but he did smile. He did drift carefully over to Dimitri, rounding on him around the side of his bangs and careful to stay on the side where he could be seen. He moved between Dimitri and the edge of the bridge, his hand reaching out to play at the jagged, split ends. “It would be vulgar to speak of, but I am happy to show you.”

He pulled away. “Come to my room within the next twenty minutes if you would like to do something sordid to me. I cannot promise I will be sober after that.”

Ferdinand did not look back as he left for his room.

Of course, Ferdinand had no way to know that Dimitri was actually coming. In fact, he most likely wouldn’t—tall, sour thing that he was.

And yet, the second Ferdinand got back to his room he doused some cologne at his collar and sleeves before gathering up some of the clothes strewn about. He found his brush and placed it purposefully by the washbasin, and he checked himself briefly in his small silver mirror before turning it facedown on the red cloth draped over his table. He glanced around, looking for anything else out of place, as if either he or Dimitri were in much of a state to care, if he even showed up. And Ferdinand had no aspirations related to Dimitri’s arrival or not.

He spied a velvet bag in the corner, placed carefully in a small gap between his chest of drawers and the wall. A wash of guilt came over him, though as one more drop in the collection of Ferdinand’s miseries, it hardly registered.

With a small apology, Ferdinand grabbed one of his heavy coats and threw it over the corner.

He then crossed his arms and waited.

He had no reliable way to tell time in his room, sitting as he was on the side of his bed with his thumbs drawing over one another. A couple times, he heard footsteps in the hallway outside—some steady, others not so much—but not the heavy, foreboding gait he associated with Dimitri’s sturdy boots on solid wood.

After waiting for a bit longer, Ferdinand sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

It was probably for the best.

Then, he caught the sound of someone coming up the stairs. Slow, marked by heavy boots that made the old frame groan to welcome them. Ferdinand’s mouth dried and turned to cotton, and with only the pounding in his ears for company, he watched the door, waiting for the visitor to make it to the hallway.

Ferdinand started bouncing the knee under his elbow. Did Dimitri even know which room was his? When they had their meeting in the hallway, he’d left before Ferdinand shuffled back behind his own door.

The boots stilled at the top of the staircase.

He wanted to wait a moment longer, but as it often did, the anticipation and uncertainty chewed at his nerves. He rose to his feet, heading for the door as his heart picked up a few steps.

He opened it, glanced down the hallway towards the stairs.

He was met by an empty corridor, barely lit by the faint indoor magelights and the sconces shining through the windows from the dim night. No one was there.

He took a breath, shifted his weight, and glanced down the other end of the hallway.

He saw the outline of a body and large, hulking shoulders before he saw the man, and in the shadows it was enough to send Ferdinand’s heart into his throat before he registered the mess of blond hair.

His back was already pressed into the frame of the door before he found his wits. He tried in vain to conceal his response by crossing his arms, and making it as if he intended to lean casually back.

“You’re late.” He swallowed. He wasn’t actually sure that Dimitri was late. He was pretty sure, as sure as he could be.

Where someone else might have raised an eyebrow, Dimitri’s expression just grew more severe. “Did I _startle_ you?”

“No,” Ferdinand said on instinct. “Yes, a little. I heard you come upstairs, but—” _I did not know you could be so quiet_. He wondered if that would be too insulting to say.

Dimitri glared downwards, hands and arms vanishing in the sweep of his cloak. He wasn’t even that much taller than Ferdinand, he just _loomed_.

Standing up straight, Ferdinand gestured into his room. “You can come in.”

Dimitri was squeezing in past the door before he’d even gotten the phrase out.

After one last, cautious glance down the hallway, Ferdinand followed him and closed them both in.

Dimitri stood like a statue in the middle of Ferdinand’s room, illuminated in orange by the oil lamp on the nightstand. He took it in without making any move to make himself comfortable, his head slowly swiveling back and forth as if he had not inhabited a lived-in space for some time. Ferdinand had the vague impression of bringing someone in out of the cold, and did not go to Dimitri right away, uncertain of what he would do or how he would react.

It occurred to Ferdinand how much larger Dimitri seemed in a small room, in the light of a lantern. Some part of Ferdinand’s mind screamed and it was quickly silenced.

“You may want to take your armor off.”

Dimitri’s head snapped around to him, lips parted in the barest hint of a growl, but Ferdinand held his ground.

“Would you like something to drink?”

Somehow, Dimitri’s expression got grimmer still. “I don’t drink.”

Ferdinand may have been imagining it, but he could have sworn he heard the faintest admonition in it. Being scolded by someone who could not control himself on the battlefield seemed somewhat hypocritical, but Ferdinand bit down whatever response he might have.

He had gotten his wish and was no longer alone; they didn’t need to approve of one another.

“Well, in any case, you should take your armor off.” He carefully came around the front of Dimitri before approaching him. “If I am being honest, my bed could probably handle it, but I could not.” One hand trailed up towards the clasps of Dimitri’s cloak. “May I?”

Dimitri blinked and glanced away. If it wasn’t Dimitri and if it wasn’t for the deep scowl carved into the marble of his mouth, Ferdinand would have almost thought he looked _bashful_.

He waited until Dimitri gave a curt, quick nod.

Ferdinand’s fingers reached up under the dense mat of fur. He found clasps nearly frozen in place, and after a little doing, the cloak fell free into an ungraceful heap on Ferdinand’s floor. Dimitri glanced down at it, as if surprised.

“There,” Ferdinand said with a new smile, “that is not so hard.”

Without the cloak, Ferdinand was able to properly see Dimitri’s armor up close for the first time, and his heart was back in his throat. His hands trailed over the breastplate, searching for a clasp, yes, but also admiring the working of it, the seamless marriage between plate and fine mail that was strong yet flexible, with moving joints that did not weaken the structure.

Faerghus was known for its master metalworkers. When Ferdinand finally pried the breastplate free, he was shocked by how lightweight it was; in Adrestia, armor had only grown heavier and heavier, until one could barely move in it and anyone inside was likely to be cooked by magic fire. Dimitri had clearly chosen mobility over protection, but there was no denying the structure offered both.

After he placed it carefully nearby, Ferdinand’s hands trailed Dimitri's sleeves to his pauldrons, gauntlets and gloves.

All the while, Dimitri watched him in fascination. By the time he had the greaves off and placed with the rest of the set, he noticed the tenting at Dimitri’s waist. He smiled up from his kneeling position. “Well, you may not be happy to see me, but this is.”

He couldn’t read the look that Dimitri gave him back, because he was already undoing the notches of Dimitri’s fly, and already felt the heat radiating off onto his lips.

He had gotten good, he thought, at saying the things that people wanted to hear, but that Dimitri was already getting hard...that lit a fire in his gut, made him want to have his own cock out already.

When he freed Dimitri, he took a moment to get a good look at it in the light. At their first encounter, he’d _felt_ it more than seen it, and his stomach swirled excitedly when he properly saw how long and sturdy it was. He’d long heard rumors that the rightful prince was well endowed, though no one could claim a personal experience short of the occasional sideways glance in the sauna.

He darted out his tongue to take an experimental lick along the shaft.

Dimitri’s hand fell to the top of Ferdinand’s head, and for one blissful moment he thought Dimitri planned to shove him down to the hilt.

But that didn’t happen.

“I thought you said you had something else in mind?” Dimitri’s voice sounded thick and crackly, a little skeptical.

Ferdinand grinned and slid up to his feet. “All in good time.”

Dimitri’s hand tugged at the side of his pants, stiffly, as if he wanted to touch himself but refrained. “I’ve no interest in a long encounter.”

“That is agreeable to me.” Ferdinand made a point to show Dimitri his backside as he undressed, and he turned, falling backwards onto the bed.

As he settled, he cast a glance back to Dimitri, who looked rigid, muscles taut under his loose undershirt. He was nearly awkward, and while Ferdinand was fully naked, he didn’t feel like the most vulnerable one in the room.

“I am right here.” Ferdinand said from where he was, moving his pillow aside and experimentally shifting his hips upwards. Tentatively, he reached down to his own cock to stir some more life into it. “Unless—”

Dimitri descended on him, falling in a wave of muscle that crashed in between Ferdinand’s legs and pressed hard into his chest as Dimitri swelled up and over him. He’d moved fast, and Ferdinand wondered what he would be like without his armor on, but he didn’t think it would just make his heart race more to feel every muscle stretched taut over bones like wrought iron. Ferdinand didn’t know why he’d think that. Dimitri had spent the last five years turning his body into a sword, smashing it with the hammer of the Blaiddyd crest to temper it.

Now, all that muscle and power had Ferdinand pressed into his bed, for just a moment, the confidence he’d had earlier slipped from him, as Dimitri looked down between them, his face masked by his bangs as he pinned a left forearm to Ferdinand’s collarbone. One cold hand slid under Ferdinand’s hip, and he positioned his waist between Ferdinand’s legs.

Ferdinand yelped, and used his strength to instinctively push himself away.

“ _What_ …” He took a breath as Dimitri froze in place over him. Swallowing, he considered his words, softened his voice. “What are you doing?”

Dimitri made no movement towards him, but Ferdinand watched his eye narrow in confusion and his cheeks redden before they disappeared once more behind his hair as he looked away. “What does it _look_ like I’m doing?”

Dimitri wasn’t even looking at him now, his mouth clamped shut, and Ferdinand realized something he should have known. As softly as he could, and as free from condescension as possible, he explained. “The one who is receiving generally needs...preparation. For the benefit of both parties.”

“I _know_ that.” Dimitri didn’t quite spit it out, but at least he was looking at Ferdinand again. “I thought…”

“I recognize that I said I like pain,” Ferdinand said, slowly reaching for the bottle of oil he kept in the drawer of his night stand. He produced it without making sudden movements, with Dimitri’s forearm still mostly pressing him into the bed. “But I would also like to be able to sit tomorrow.”

Dimitri watched his every motion, and Ferdinand noted with some bleakness on his part that some of the heat in the moment had been lost. No worries. He held the bottle of oil in offering. “Would you like to…?”

Dimitri’s mouth stayed clamped shut.

“All right then,” Ferdinand said. “I will show you.”

When he brushed his hand against Dimitri’s wrist to indicate he should let up some of the pressure, he quickly assented. A rush of relief—and something else—ran wild through Ferdinand at how easily Dimitri moved at his touch, despite everything else he could be and was, despite seeming made of stone half the time.

He watched intently as Ferdinand used his hips to prop up his waist, reaching down with his fingers doused in oil as he began to open himself up between them. Though it was mostly business, he sighed into the sensation. It wasn’t quite the same as having a bedmate do it, but he liked the feeling, the stretch, the sting, the oil warming as he moved his fingers back and forth and started gently moving his hips. Heat shot through his lower stomach as their cocks rubbed together and he started fucking himself on his own fingers.

This time when Ferdinand looked back up, Dimitri looked _hungry_. His pupil was wide and his mouth had blown faintly ajar under his chapped lips, and he now seemed to have a permanent blush. His hand squeezed on Ferdinand’s hip, he believed unintentionally, and Ferdinand got the distinct impression that Dimitri was jealous of his hand.

“Are you...ready?” Dimitri’s voice sounded unusually high and small. The growl Ferdinand had grown used to was nowhere to be heard.

He smiled, sliding his fingers out and letting his arm fall back onto the bed. “I am at your mercy.”

For both their comforts, Ferdinand grabbed his spare pillow and slipped it under his hips as Dimitri hoisted him up, and the stages were awkward, foreign. Ferdinand had felt them before, but he was less prepared for the way Dimitri entered him in parts, uncertainly pushing his cock in bit by bit as Feridnand spread his legs and angled his hips. It wasn’t smooth, precisely, and the _length_ , Goddess—

They stayed connected like that for a heartbeat, Ferdinand’s body adjusting and Dimitri frozen in place as his face lapsed somewhere between dazzled surprise and deep pleasure. Dimitri leaned downwards, his breaths coming out in jagged gasps as he tested moving inside Ferdinand, which dragged a high whine from him. But it wasn’t enough, not nearly.

He sat up slightly so he could give a tentative downwards cant and press their cheeks flush together.

“What _ever_ are you waiting for?” Ferdinand whispered into Dimitri’s ear, his lips near the shell, his jaw burning against the coating of grime on rough blond hair. “Use me.”

He squeezed his calves around the small of Dimitri’s back, drawing him further in. There was a growl by Ferdinand’s head, followed by a broad hand dropping to his hip to hold him in place as Dimitri started thrusting.

The first snaps of his hips were rough, almost frantic. If Ferdinand didn’t know better, he’d have said they felt overeager. Ferdinand gasped until the rhythm became steadier and he was able to set into a pace with Dimitri, taking him more comfortably.

He’d imagined, foolishly, that having that length inside him, attached to this man, would be like being fucked with a lance—though he hadn’t been sure which end.

It was decidedly more normal than that. Though Dimitri was large and went deep quickly, his hot breath against Ferdinand’s neck betrayed some of what he was feeling, his hand that wasn’t on Ferdinand’s hip was clasped to the bedframe to grant some stability, and the resulting force and angle was welcome indeed. What started out as a sharp ache warmed, and the pained noises in Ferdinand’s throat went higher and cleaner as Dimitri tried and failed to stay stoic.

The pace would increase and then decrease, fade to long strokes as Dimitri’s voice went softer, higher, then increase again into a burst of activity that made Ferdinand see stars as moans turned into grunts, the kinds of sounds one would hear on the training yard. The pace was fast and overwhelming, and he couldn’t even think about his own climax. All he could think about was the tangy sting of salt, oil, and pre-come, and how for at least this long he alone held Dimitri’s attention.

Dimitri’s strokes smoothed out again, and Ferdinand saw a peachy sheen of sweat over his skin, in between the mottled scars.

Madly, Ferdinand thought of how he’d once daydreamed about Dimitri taking him in his room.

His eyes watered. He arched his back. The fingers on his hip dug in painfully, and with a couple final thrusts and a sound like a cry Dimitri came.

Ferdinand watched him closely, watched him quiver and then go rigid with his climax. He panted as if he had just run a sprint, and a little sound eked out with every breath.

With one hand, Ferdinand reached down to finish himself. It didn’t take much—a couple strokes had him spilling over, but he was overstimulated, and the orgasm came and went quickly as a deep, painful burn that still left come on his stomach.

Dimitri’s blue eye found Ferdinand. It was wide with surprise, and in the lamplight Ferdinand caught what looked to be the faintest glitter of water there.

They stayed there for a moment, and for just one second, Ferdinand let himself pretend. That it had all been a dream. That Dimitri had never been chased out of Fhirdiad and Ferdinand had never fled Garreg Mach. There was no war. That they could have discovered each other in the dark with hushed whispers and sweet kissing.

Dimitri looked away and pulled himself from the bed without a sound, nearly stumbling in his haste to get away. Ferdinand gaped around his absence, shocked, and faintly reached out to him, though Dimitri wasn’t looking. All the armor that Ferdinand had so carefully removed was hastily—angrily—snapped back on one piece at a time.

He laid there and watched, still dumb from his afterglow, blinking away tears from exertion and the emotional low that came after sex.

When Dimitri finally replaced his cloak, he stormed to the door and was out of it without another glance.

The door shut loudly, and Ferdinand was alone again.

There, in the middle of his mess, he fought a sudden sharp pain in his throat.

This hadn’t been like the last two times—where Dimitri had gotten what he wanted and left quickly, uncaringly. No. This time he’d _run_. He could disguise it as rage all he wanted, but Ferdinand had gotten a good view of his face, right up until the moment he turned it away.

He smothered a sob that was eaten by his mattress and the silence of his room.

Even the Butcher Prince had been too disgusted with him to look at him after.

He didn’t want to think about the depths of what that meant. He didn’t mind being discarded afterwards—he enjoyed it, but it was Dimitri, and—

Right then, he wanted to coil around the emptied out pit of his stomach and feel nothing at all.

Ferdinand quickly stumbled out of bed, cleaned himself, and cracked open the bottle of port he’d brought back from the tables.


End file.
